Enchanted essences and pagan pyres—
Oh, dream that sleeps and sleep that knows no dreaming!
So wert thou wrought in fragrant fadeless fires.
So wert thou wrapt in garments goldly gleaming
And dying knew not what should end this seeming.
The ghosts of evenings haunt these afternoons.
The mid-day twilight shifts with my desire.
Nor yet before my eyes do they conspire
There to distil the fragrance of the moons
That burn and are consumed with splendid fire,